


Les Monstres Commencent

by awenswords



Series: Les Monstres de France [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Mutants, Swearing, inspired by xmen and villans, part of my les monstres universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-24
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-06-15 14:48:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15415335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awenswords/pseuds/awenswords
Summary: ///As he gauges what he should say, Enjolras feels a sudden overwhelming wave of power, crashing at his shoulders and the back of his neck. There's a tugging sensation at the base of his brainstem, pulling along his spine. His father's guests lean back, their faces slacken, their eyes empty. They are tuned to him, suddenly, waves of power coursing through him. His father staggers, gripping the back of his chair. The anger in Enjolras's chest loosens, and it spreads, grabbing each person one by one. The anger hops from chair to chair, and slowly the room fills with coursing, crashing rage. He wills it, demanding conviction and belief as he speaks.///Short one-shots exploring how each of the Amis (+ some other characters) learned about their mutations.





	1. Enjolras

Enjolras spends his life being silenced.

His parents (well off non-mutants) lead ordinary, if not boring lives. His childhood home is a menagerie of expensive glass and even more expensive silks. As a boy, he was paraded around at cocktail parties and campaign kick-offs, always with a nice, conservative girl on his arm. He was kept quiet, told not to speak up, not to voice his thoughts. He was born to be a pawn, the child necessary for two wealthy politicians to uphold the perfect-family image.

Even now, neigh twenty years of age, nothing has changed. Occasionally he gives a toast, makes an appearance at meetings, but he is always shuffled away like a child approaching curfew.

Smile, wave, shake hands, stay silent. Raise a glass in support of his father, give a toast to his mother. Blush sheepishly when required, defend his family when required, and always agree. No dissent is tolerated.

Beneath the veneer of perfect-golden-boy, he seethes. He grits his teeth, bites his tongue, sneaks out to the balcony and imagines what his speeches will be when he can lead. The life he will lead, the structures he will topple.

Now, his father raises a champagne glass, and Enjolras, ever the dutiful son, listens with half an ear. Every point his father makes he disagrees with, and he has the evidence to back it up. The studies, the knowledge, the experience. He's been making connections too, taking the steps forward to take over his family's political empire the moment his parents falter.

"I stand for the people's safety," his father says (a lie), "and we cannot be safe when monsters roam the streets. My family is not safe, and neither is yours. Now, we can talk all we want about liberty and brotherhood, but when our brothers are being slaughtered by these mutants, we can have no liberty." (mutants kill more mutants than the other way around), "And thus, we must take measures to protect ourselves. That is why I am proposing a safety net. There are Dangerous Mutants on the streets of Paris right now," he pauses, taking a dramatic breath, "and that should terrify you. It scares me. They might come for my family - my beautiful wife or my wonderful son. But it is my responsibility to protect my people, and thus, I am proposing that the citizenship of Dangerous Mutants be nullified."

There's a swelling of applause, and Enjolras does not move. Every instinct in his body is screaming that he stands up, grabs his own glass, and fights back. He is no mutant, but others are. So many others have been branded as 'Dangerous.' Does he not have the power to stop this?

Yet, even as an adult, he fears his father's wrath.

He bites his lip, staring at his plate, swallowing and struggling to gather his courage. Unable to decide what to do.

His father decides for him: "My son, why do you not clap? You will be protected from the monstres, my boy."

Enjolras looks up, his firey gaze meeting glass-cold eyes and polished-marble face, "I fear no mutants, father," he says, and his father smirks, clearly approving the show of strength. But as Enjolras continues, fingers curling around the deep blue tablecloth, the pride drains from his eyes, "but I do fear you, and the harm you will cause."

His family's guests - all important and high-ranking, many military men - turn to him, every face a different display of confusion, anger, and amusement. Some show fear.

A wicked smile cuts along his father's face as he sits down, taking a sip of champagne. His mother shoots Enjolras a terrifying, threatening look. She looks severe and enraged, eyes burning. The girl next to him, today's faux-date, looks like she wants to melt into the tablecloth.

"You must watch your tongue, son."

Every glance builds the anger and determination in his chest, and he aches for the passive people here to understand, to listen. He wants the anger to drip from their faces, he wants calm understanding, then anger at his father. As he gauges what he should say, Enjolras feels a sudden overwhelming wave of power, crashing at his shoulders and the back of his neck. There's a tugging sensation at the base of his brainstem, pulling along his spine. His father's guests lean back, their faces slacken, their eyes empty. They are tuned to him, suddenly, waves of power coursing through him. His father staggers, gripping the back of his chair. The anger in Enjolras's chest loosens, and it spreads, grabbing each person one by one. The anger hops from chair to chair, and slowly the room fills with coursing, crashing rage. He wills it, demanding conviction and belief as he speaks, "I'm done being silent," and as the guests set down their utensils and rise, their fury boiling alongside his, Enjolras realizes: "I'm one of the monstres, father."

He can see the twin anger in his father's eyes, but he wants fear. He wants his father to feel fear, icy fear. He pushes out, gritting his teeth and narrowing his eyes as he rises from his seat, balling his hands into fists at his sides. His fingernails score crescent-moon marks on his palms, and with the slices of pain that shoot through his wrist, he raises his head and locks eyes with his father across the table.

He sees his eyes fill with fear, sees it racing through his body. The man's hands shake and he drops his champagne.

Enjolras stalks around the table, "I'm done with your bullshit. Adeiu, père et mère."

And he leaves, letting his hold on the room go as he opens the front door, steps over the threshold and into the snowy roads of Paris. He buttons his red coat as he turns and heads towards the one place he knows he'll be safe - The Café Musain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras' power is emotion manipulation.
> 
> TRANSLATIONS:  
> Les Monstres Commencent - The Monsters Begin  
> monstres - monsters  
> Adeiu, père et mère - Goodbye, father and mother.


	2. Combeferre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ///Without the collar, his bone-deep exhaustion is gone, his eyes are open, his body awake and aware. Where moments ago his mind was muddled and subdued, his mutation so deeply ingrained in his psyche that it's absence toys with the whole system, now he's alert, neurons are fast and his senses alert. He doesn't want to put the collar back on, but he wants to live.///

"They're calling you in," the guard says, yanking Combeferre onto his feet and dragging him from the cell. It's more comfortable than the other mutants' cells - he has a mattress on the floor, a private bathroom, and his rations are survivable,

Of course, that luxury comes at a cost.

He's marched down the hall, flanked by more guards. Each is covered head-to-toe - longsleeves, masks, leather gloves. Not an inch of exposed skin. Combeferre takes a moment to relish in the fact that they're still afraid of him, even after months of cooperation. It's nearly a year now. He still doesn't even know where he is.

The door to the interrogation room is unlocked, and on the other side of the one-way-mirror is a young man, hunched over, a bulky collar around his neck. The same one that Combeferre wears now. He can feel it's presence, draining his energy and his will. The larger prisons use an audigenetic system, blaring sounds that manipulate the brains of mutants. Combeferre knows that the method came from optogenetics, he worked in labs that studied just that. Audigenetic systems are far cheaper than the collars, so only smaller prisons and labs use the collars.

The young man's deep black hair hangs over his eyes, and his clothing is clearly expensive, despite the disheveled tie and the missing cuff-link, he's obviously well-off.

"Turn around and put your hands on the wall," the guard instructs. The other people in the viewing room step back, giving Combeferre a wide berth. The guard unlocks Combeferre's collar, and he feels the flush of power and life spread through his body. The guard springs back, opens the door, and pushes Combeferre through. There's another collar on the table for Combeferre to put on before he's allowed to leave the room.

He knows the drill. He's done this too many times to count, and he hates it every time.

The metal chair scrapes along the cement floor as he pulls it back and takes a seat, pushing up his glasses and folding his hands on the table. It's cold, stainless steel. Unwelcoming. The boy - Combeferre can see now that he's barely a man, not yet an adult - looks up, coldness on his young face. His lip is split, his mouth red with blood. It flecks his collar - he clearly put up a fight.

"Je suis desolee," Combeferre begins, "Je m'appelle Combeferre. Et vous?"

His eyes narrow, and his hands twitch, rattling the chains. Combeferre can see him straining, aching to access his mutation, whatever it is.

"Je ne veux pas de votre gentillesse," he spits, baring his bloodstained teeth.

Combeferre sighs, "Comment vous appelez-vous? Faites ce plus facile pour vous-même. S'il vous plaît."

The young man says nothing, fixing his eyes on the wall behind Combeferre.

He waits a beat, then huffs and reaches his hand out. He can get the information without speaking - that's why he's here anyway. If he could be compassionate, he would - he tries every time, but they rarely listen to him. The young man yanks his hands back as far as he can, eyes flaring. His posture is still poised, his expression is still both feral and suave, but Combeferre can see the underlying fear.

"C'est Montparnasse," he says curtly. His eyes flash dangerously.

"Merci," Combeferre retracts his hands, "Que faites vous faites, Montparnasse?"

Montparnasse narrows his eyes dangerously and falls silent once again.

"Je peux aider vous," Combeferre coaxes.

The speaker crackles from the ceiling and a cold feminine voice fills the room: "Stop stalling, Combeferre."

He twists around in his seat, fixing his gaze on the one-way-mirror as if he can see through it, "I'd rather not scare him. He might not even be a mutant." If he can instill even a fragment of compassion into this cold place, he will.

"Just do it."

Combeferre sighs and reaches out, grasping Montparnesse's hand. The boy flinches, trying to drag his hand back, but the chains stop him. There's power coursing through him, trying to escape - Combeferre can feel it, can feel where the collar reigns him in. He drags his mind outward, grasps onto the threads of Montparnesse's mind - and tugs.

Monaparnesse convulses, struggling against Combeferre's grip. After months of barely being able to access his own second-nature mutation, he's gotten rusty, unpracticed. His extractions are less surgical, less precise than they once were. The collar is likely resetting his own training, his hours of brushing against people and tearing out their minds and their knowledge, practicing until he could silently grab everything in someone's memory without them so much as blinking. His presence was once quiet and undetectable - now it's messy, with Montparnesse struggling and shaking.

He gathers everything, relaxes as copies flood into his mind. The rush of power is exhilarating, it calms his mind like a drug.

When he lets go, Monatparnesse is gasping and glaring, pale blue eyes threatening - especially now that Combeferre knows.

He turns around, standing up more steadily than he has in the past week. He takes a moment to enjoy the stability, the air brimming with potential. Without the collar, his bone-deep exhaustion is gone, his eyes are open, his body awake and aware. Where moments ago his mind was muddled and subdued, his mutation so deeply ingrained in his psyche that it's absence toys with the whole system, now he's alert, neurons are fast and his senses alert. He doesn't want to put the collar back on, but he wants to live.

It's heavy in his hands, heavy as he clasps it behind his neck and turns the power on. Montparnesse watches, some semblance of horror in his eyes and Combeferre stumbles back and his mind is assaulted with a railroad-spike wave of pain, his vision wavering until he is able to regain some semblance of control. Blood is trailing from his nose, his body is weaker, his steps shuffle as he walks towards the door.

"Moi aussi je suis désolé," Montparnesse murmers.

"Merci."

The door opens and Combeferre falls through, "He's a Bodyjacker."

The young boy with the blood on his teeth would be sent to a high-security prison. Now that Combeferre has all of his memories and knowledge, he knows it's not the first time. He'll probably escape, but Combeferre won't tell the guards that. The least he can do is give Montparnesse a slight advantage, however small. He's powerful, so he might not need it. Not when he can possess the bodies of anyone around him.

As he's marched back to his cell, he sifts through the memories, browsing through years, days, minutes. He was a gang member - a leader. He was powerful, and still is. He may be a valuable ally.

Combeferre has so many other memories, the minds of so many people. He squeezes his eyes shut as he falls to the mattress on the floor and lets the memories sweep him away, lets himself drift away in the current of thoughts that were never his own, moments he shouldn't have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Combeferre's mutation is knowledge replication.
> 
> TRANSLATIONS:  
> Je suis desolee - I am sorry  
> Je m'appelle Combeferre. Et vous? - My name is Combeferre. And you?  
> Je ne veux pas de votre gentillesse - I do not want your kindness  
> Comment vous appelez-vous? Faites ce plus facile pour vous-même. S'il vous plaît. - What is your name? Make this easy for yourself. Please.  
> C'est Montparnasse. - I'm Montparnasse.  
> Que faites vous faites, Montparnasse? - What do you do, Monatparnesse?  
> Je peux aider vous - I can help you  
> Moi aussi je suis désolé - I am sorry too.
> 
> Optogenetics: a biological technique which involves the use of light to control cells in living tissue, typically neurons, that have been genetically modified to express light-sensitive ion channels. (Wikipedia) This is a really fascinating and rather disturbing branch of science. I've based the sound control in the previous work on Optogenetics, but with sound instead of light. Combeferre understands the science behind it but Enjolras does not, which is why Enjolras assumes it's using the pain to control him. The idea is that the mutation in the monstre's genes genetically modifies them to have sound-sensitive channel proteins that normal humans do not have. The sound that stops the gene expression is played, and thus the mutation is no longer expressed.


	3. Jehan Prouvaire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ///A week later, they find a beautiful sparrow on the side of the road, struggling to fly. They cup it in their hands, soft feathers and kicking legs, chest heaving. Jehan stands there, straddling the dashed white lines (they do not fear cars anymore), and stitches it's broken body back together. Repairs its feathers, fixes its crushed eye. Each cell obeys them, listens to the whisper of their will.///

Jehan Prouvaire died.

Well, almost.

Technically, it was a near-death experience, but Jehan swears they actually died. It was a car crash that claimed them, t-boned at an intersection by someone in a hurry (too much of a hurry to stop at the stop sign, too much of a hurry to slow down in the residential area).

They only remember flashes of it - morphine drips, casts, blood, tears. Slipping into a coma for two months, dreams of cold and their mother's eyes, their brother's laugh.

Waking up, bleary, confused, bright lights and linoleum floors. Whispered conversations between their mother and the doctors. Time frames given (how many months was it? Or was it weeks?) and their mother's tears. Death approaching like an X on a calendar. Being spoon-fed jello.

And then, drifting into darkness, wishing with every ounce of their soul that their body would cooperate, breathe, move, inhale (please, God, inhale, give me one more fucking breath), start their heart again. Wishing the driver had stopped, wishing they could have pressed his foot against the break and shift the steering wheel. Wishing they could knit their broken body back together.

Flatlining, spinning away -

then -

waking up.

Gasping, fingers clenching white sheets, legs jerking with the sudden flood of life.

Leaving the hospital, their bones knitting together.

That's how it began - painstaking, focused self-healing. It took immense concentration, repairing each nerve through sheer will alone.

The return to home is a strange one. The family cat is confused by their sudden presence. Their bedroom is gathering dust, and they’re too thin for most of their clothes. 

They see a spider, a large ugly thing crawling along the wall of their bedroom - they fleetingly wish its gone. So, its legs crumple in, it's body twitches, and it becomes a little brown splatter on the wall. They sob, terrified.

A week later, they find a beautiful sparrow on the side of the road, struggling to fly. They cup it in their hands, soft feathers and kicking legs, chest heaving. Jehan stands there, straddling the dashed white lines (they do not fear cars anymore), and stitches it's broken body back together. Repairs its feathers, fixes its crushed eye. Each cell obeys them, listens to the whisper of their will.

A neighborhood boy calls them a freak. They exhale a hissing breath and his body leans, his arm steering his bike against his will, sending him careening into a tree. He breaks his leg and his wrist.

His mother yells at them, and Jehan can't control it. She trips, falls on the tile floor of the kitchen, She gets a concussion, and Jehan is afraid of themself.

Their neighbor calls the gendarmes. They appear at the door, pounding it, accusing Jehan of being an anomaly, a freak, a monster, a devil. They call them a psychopath. And they're so afraid, they just want the men and women with their guns and heavy boots to leave. They sit on the floral-print sofa, questioned by a terrifying, broad-shouldered man. Their mother is in the dining room, pointedly ignoring Jehan's distress.

"Tell me about the sparrow," he says, "and the boy on the bike." Jehan can see fear in the man's eyes. He's afraid of them. They're only thirteen years old, and the police are afraid of them.

"I saw a sparrow, outside. I helped it, that's all."

The man narrows his eyes, "That's not what you told your mère."

"I told maman that the sparrow was hurt, and when I picked it up and wanted it to be better, it's body listened to me."

"And the boy?"

Jehan swallows. They know hurting the boy was bad, but he was so mean to them and they lost their temper. "He told me I was a monstre, and I wanted him to stop. And then he crashed his bike."

"Are you a monstre, Jehan?"

They don't have an answer they want to say (they want to say non, je ne suis pas un monstre) but the man's eyes are so cold and they send ice down Jehan's spine, chilly fear. They know what happens to the monstres, they're young but not stupid. They pay attention, they listen.

So they say the truth. Their mother taught them not to lie, and even though she's afraid of them now, they cling to the hope that perhaps, if they tell the truth, their mother will love them. Will protect them from what happens to the monstres that hurt people.

"Oui," Jehan says, not meeting the man's eyes. Their mother glances at them, a brief look brimming with sadness. Then she turns away again, crossing her arms. They can tell she’s going to cry.

The man stands, an imposing figure, blocking out the light that streams through the front door. He turns around, signals to another policeman, and then the gendarmes swarm around them, pushing them against the pink-and-green cushions, the embroidery leaving marks on their cheek. Their arms are wrenched behind them, and they feel the cold metal of handcuffs brushing their wrists. They wish, desperately, that the police would stop. They will all of the bodies to stop

Jehan stretches out their mind, feels the presence of all of the people in their home - the interviewer, the policewoman with the handcuffs, their mother, the men with guns on their hips, a woman with her finger on the trigger.

Stop.

They say it out loud, too, a shuddering word, a desperate breath: “Stop.” It’s both plea and demand.

There's a series of strangled gasps and thuds behind them. The grip on their arms is gone, and when they turn around, the living room is littered with bodies. The man who questioned them is sprawled on the floor, blood trickling from his nose.

Jehan stands, slowly and shakily, bones laced with fatigue, and moves to the kitchen. They have to pick their way around the bodies, weaving between people tossed like dolls on the floor.

They find their mother collapsed, leaning against the refrigerator. Her eyes are open, glassy, skin already cooling when they reach for her hand. They will her body to fix itself, but they’re so tired. Their head drums with pain, their heartbeat loud as if it’s echoing between their ears. They reach, desperately, searching for a thread to latch onto. The body has no energy for them to pull - their mother’s body. Their mother who they killed, who is now sliding to the floor. No breaths or heartbeats. Jehan can't undo their own work.

They breathe out a strangled sob, clutching her cardigan, trying, trying forcing their mind out. But there’s nothing to grab onto.

So they run.

Sprinting down the street, slipper-clad feet pounding on the pavement, sending fall-orange leaves flying. Heart pounding like a sparrow come back to life. They skid around a corner and force a girl off of her bike, using their mind to make her body move, jerkily getting off of the seat and stepping back. Jehan's control is sloppy, and she moves like a marionette. She has energy in bright threads, easy to manipulate, but Jehan is unpracticed and clumsy. They steal her bike and pedal as fast as they can, careening around turns, heading for the forest behind the neighborhood. Perhaps they can hide there. Perhaps they won't hurt anyone there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jehan's mutation is biological manipulation
> 
> TRANSLATIONS:  
> mère - mother  
> maman - mom  
> non, je ne suis pas un monstre - no, I am not a monstre  
> Oui - yes


	4. Joly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ///His promise ring is gone (dangerous metal), he's still clad in only flimsy blue boxers and a too-big t-shirt of Bossuet's. Last night was a different galaxy, but it lingers in the faraway taste of lip gloss on is mouth and Bossuet's attentive purple mark blossoming on his collarbone.  
> Another round of screaming drags his attention back like a leash. He knows what's happening.//

Joly awakens to the sound of screams and a cold fear that settles in his gut like a handful of river pebbles. It’s jarring, being yanked out of sleep with the sudden certainty that something is very, very wrong.

He blinks as the warm presence at his side - Bossuet, or Musichetta? - vanishes, and the sheets are jerked off of him. He hears Musichetta yelp, and the fear rises in his throat. He wills his body to cooperate as the morning’s stiffness and aches set in. It’s dark - but there’s warmth on his shoulders, and he stumbles to his feet as his vision clears.

Bossuet is screaming, sobs choking his voice.

Musichetta is crying and pleading as she kicks at a guard, her feet bare, clad in only her underwear. Hair messy. 

The fatigue melts from his bones as reality sets in, and his lazy morning is stolen from him by men, clad in black, brandishing guns. Bossuet is on the floor, hands on his head, tears streaming down his face. It pulls at Joly’s chest, constricting his throat.

Fuck.

The three of them knew this day would come - knew their fragile peace would be shattered any moment. Ignoring reality was easier than acknowledging it, so they lived day-to-day in amber afternoons, stick-n-poke tattoos, boxed wine, and grinning lips leaving purple marks on collar bones. It was a honey-warm time, a blossoming few months, lipstick-stained champagne flutes and sunlight dappled on bare skin.

And it’s being shattered now, pictures knocked off their frames as Musichetta struggles and Bossuet sobs, gun pressed against the back of his head. That stills Musichetta and sends Joly into furious action - the of Bossuet’s body in a morgue somewhere, cold and dead, lips blue.

He swings a lamp at the nearest policeman. It shatters dramatically against his side, but he staggers back only a pace. His gun levels at Joly, “We don’t want any trouble with you or the woman.”

“Fuck you,” Joly spits out, taking a stumbling step forwards. The gun seems inconsequential, but Musichetta’s eyes widen in horror.

In the small moment of consideration, the police move again, grabbing Bossuet and dragging him back. One of them trips down the staircase, screaming - there’s a small upside to Bossuet’s rather chaotic mutation.

Musichetta jumps forwards, sending metal flying around her - a spoon, necklaces, earrings, the wire of a lampshade, the end of a plug - and suspending it in the air, small daggers pointed at the men trying to take Bossuet from her. She looks sublime - hair wild, eyes bright and angry, confidence and power in every inch of her body, despite the fright that lingers there. “You fuck with him, you fuck with me. Do you want to die tonight, humm?”

The man cocks his gun, but with a flick of her fingers, Musichetta sends it flying, flattering against the wall.

But bad luck is a dark cloud that follows Bossuet, and the guards see what Musichetta can do and brandish plastic weaponry, some sort of nonmetal. The triumph melts from her face and Joly swallows back a sob as the guns are once again trained on him and his two loves.

“You can’t do this,” he tries, leaning heavily on his dresser as he stumbles forwards, “he has rights.”

The guard shakes his head, “Monstres don’t get rights, monsigur.”

“Please. He’s - he’s done nothing. Nothing. Wrong."

The man gives Joly a dead-eyed look, spins his gun around to grip it by the muzzle, and sends Bossuet spinning against the ground with a blow to his jaw. There's an awful cracking sound and Bossuet cries out, sending a splash of blood across the white carpet. Joly leaps forward to tackle the man but Musichetta blocks his pathway with a criss-cross of metal.

His partners may be mutants, but he isn't one.

Musichetta sends a carnival coin careening into the man's skull, breaking through bone and brain matter with disturbing efficacy. He collapses.

There's a sudden, brutal high-pitched keening sound and Musichetta collapses. Bossuet sobs, clutching his head and curling into a ball on the floor. Bare feet covered in blood. The suspended metal falls to the ground.

Joly takes a stumbling step forward, but he's forced against the wall, handcuffs clasped to his wrists. There's a cloth pressed against his mouth and nose, he tastes sickly-sweetness, like too-ripe berries, he smells wine and rot. His legs buckle, rubbery, and the floor is fast approaching, and -

He wakes up chained to a plastic chair.

There's screaming. He pries his eyes open painstakingly, sees someone shuddering and shaking on a gurney - convulsing, screaming with the wrenching sensation of bodies hitting pavement. It’s Bossuet on the too-clean table, it's his shaking body that sends shockwaves of power through the room. A mirror shatters, sending glass flying. Joly’s fingers twist together frantically, pale white, bitten-down nails, band-aid on his thumb and the absense of a metal band on his ring finger (it’s one of three).

He swallows, squeezing his eyes shut and praying for a feeble moment, sending a quick wish out to any deity that might be listening. The cuffs around his hands bite into his skin, and the only thing that comes close to drowning out the screams are his memories. Memories of the arrest, moments ago.

He cannot see or hear Musichetta. 

His promise ring is gone (dangerous metal), he's still clad in only flimsy blue boxers and a too-big t-shirt of Bossuet's. Last night was a different galaxy, but it lingers in the faraway taste of lip gloss on is mouth and Bossuet's attentive purple mark blossoming on his collarbone.

Another round of screaming drags his attention back like a leash. He knows what's happening.

There were many early experiments into the development of mutations. Covert groups of researchers, metal tables, and electricity.

A multitude of theories arose - traumatic situations, such as near-death excrescences, triggers a flood of adrenaline that has long-term impacts on the subject’s body. Incredible, bone-searing pain unlocks a genetic sequence hidden in the mutant’s DNA. Perhaps monsters are the result frameshift mutations that dramatically transform the subject’s state of being as a whole, turning them into something less - or more, depending on who you ask - than human.

They're trying to erase Bossuet's mutation by bringing him to the cusp of death.

Joly yanks experimentally on the handcuffs, not sure what to do. He catches the pitying gaze of a respiratory technician.

"Puis-je - Puis-je me lever? S'il vous plaît," he asks, throat dry and scratchy.

The tech turns to a guard, who shrugs, "Il n'est pas muté. Et regarde-le. Qu'est-ce qu'il va faire?"

"Merci," Joly mutters and stands up, heart aching more than his injured body. He limps weakly to Bossuet, frantically searching the room for something, anything he can do.

"Mon coeur," he whispers to the convulsing body, "Je vais essayer, pour vous et pour notre Musichetta chérie."

He pleads with the gods, reaching out to brush Bossuet's hand - 

Pain shoots through him, sending him collapsing to the floor. Bossuet stills, gasping and sitting up.

It consumes Joly's mind, a yellowred fog. Terrible and wrenching, a shattering breaking. As if every capillary was torn open, every cell shriveled and every neuron set on fire. His nails torn out, his gums denigrated, his spine broken and rebroken and broken again.

Someone grabbed at his shoulder and he pushed, pushed the pain away with a violent shove of his mind and a prayer for the pressure to be gone, to fucking go away. And then it does, like ash clearing from a forest fire, rain cleaning blood from pavement after a gunfight. Like hot metal quenched in water. He can exhale, and hear the screams of the guard. There are guns trained on him and Bossuet now (when did Bosseut climb down from the gurney, when did he wrap his arms around Joly, when did he start crying?).

There's new, unknown power flooding his veins as he sobs on the floor, tangled with Bosseut's warmth. Guns train onto the pair, the guard screams in the distance. An alarm blares, someone calls for a medic and a set of collars.

Ce n'est pas ce qu'il voulait pour une vie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Joly's power is pain transference. Bossuet's will be explained in his own chapter!
> 
> TRANSLATIONS:  
> Puis-je - Puis-je me lever? S'il vous plaît. - Can I - Can I get up? Please.  
> Il n'est pas muté. Et regarde-le. Qu'est-ce qu'il va faire? - He has not mutated. And look at him. What will he do?  
> Mon coeur - My heart (term of endearment)  
> Je vais essayer, pour vous et pour notre Musichetta chérie. - I will try, for you and for our darling Musichetta.  
> Ce n'est pas ce qu'il voulait pour une vie. - This is not what he wanted for a life.


	5. Grantaire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ///That moment, that expression - the confusion, the sunlight catching on his dark hands (clenched around the messy folders like a lifeline), the flow of his coat as he moves, the glint of his eyes. He's painted it, with the messy backdrop of his doorway fading into the background (Apollo is the source of light in his works).
> 
> "What - what's happening?" Grantaire asks, wine sloshing out of the glass and onto his hand, "I'm not that high. Or drunk." He drops his paintbrush, a lazy gesture.///

Every painting he created was of the same boy. Even when he set out to create something else - a landscape, an architectural study - it was him. Warm brown skin, an ember-like light in his eyes, a halo of golden hair bright like the sun. He called him Apollo, and it became the theme of his Art 100 concentration. It was the theme of every one of his art shows, but this one - he knew more. About the boy (a young man by now). About Apollo.

The paintings progressed, a sort of timeline. They sprung from Grantaire's mind like memories. Apollo, rallying fire-eyed people in candlelight. Apollo, sign in hand, marching through the streets, protesting. Apollo, facing down faceless men in black riot gear, determination in his eyes, in the crease between his eyebrows and the blood trickling from his nose. Apollo, dragged away by the police, beaten and bruised. Apollo, cowering in a cell, coated in blood both fresh and dry.

People often asked Grantiare who the boy was, and he never had a good answer.

"He's a metaphor for hope."

"He's a god in human skin, sent down to Earth to unite us."

"He's liberty."

"He's color in a monochrome world."

"He's the blind man's light."

Grantaire has always been painting him, sketching him. He appears in the corner of every photograph, a ghostly glimpse of an angelic, wild figure. He sees him in fire, his mouth a grim line, his eyebrows furrowed.

He feels that he knows Apollo. The golden-haired god seems like an old friend, a lifelong companion, for he's been around Grantaire's whole life. Sometimes, he's drawn other things, of course. He's drawn buildings aflame, underground hideouts, faces illuminated by blue screens, hands jotting down notes on stained legal pads, blood dotting walls, men with ice in their eyes.

But Apollo is the constant. As the world turns, Apollo is there to comfort him from charcoal-scribbled pages. As Grantaire's brother is dragged away by the gendarmes. As he's tried for abuse of mutant powers. As his family is investigated. As his brother is sent to prison and his family is decimated and Grantaire is left in the ashes.

And then -

A knock on his door. A loud, brash, angry knock. A voice:

"Bonjour?"

Grantaire warily wanders towards the door, a glass of wine in one hand and a paintbrush in the other.

The knocking grows, fear laced in the pounding, anxiety, urgency.

"Please, I want to help you, Grantaire."

He doesn't know the voice - but he does. He does know the voice. He opens the door, some strange part of him expecting to see the wide-eyed face he's been painting all his life.

And -

Breathless, tripping over the threshold, manilla envelopes spilling out of his arms -

a red coat, a halo of golden hair - 

"Apollo?" Grantaire murmurs, enthralled and confused at the same time. In awe.

The young man takes a confused step back, "What?"

That moment, that expression - the confusion, the sunlight catching on his dark hands (clenched around the messy folders like a lifeline), the flow of his coat as he moves, the glint of his eyes. He's painted it, with the messy backdrop of his doorway fading into the background (Apollo is the source of light in his works).

"What - what's happening?" Grantaire asks, wine sloshing out of the glass and onto his hand, "I'm not that high. Or drunk." He drops his paintbrush, a lazy gesture.

Apollo frowns, then abruptly starts a conversation, and the confusion bleeds out of Grantaire, replaced by calm. "Your brother was a mutant. We have reason to believe you are too."

"What the fuck?"

He wipes a hand across his face, a pained expression surfacing, then repeats himself slowly: "Your brother was a mutant. We have reason to believe you are too."

"First off, no."

The young man waits expectantly, then seems to realize that Grantaire has no other points, and moves into Grantaire's small living room, taking in the mess that is his apartment. Bookshelves clutter the walls, paintings and sketches pinned to cork boards. There are multiple calendars, each with a different theme. Polaroid photos with scribbled captions.

Apollo sets the folder down, opening it, "You are Grantaire, correct?"

"Yes, and who the fuck are you? Besides . . . " He waves his hand in the air, trailing off his thought.

"Enjolras. Besides what?"

"You know," Grantaire chews on his lower lip, setting the wine glass down and taking an unsteady step forwards, "you know. I've seen you before."

Apollo - no, Enjolras - raises his eyebrows, "That's a start. Precognition? Or is it divination? Psychometry, maybe."

"None of those words mean anything to me."

Enjolras sighs, "For the love of - how do you know me?"

For a moment, Grantaire considers lying or forcing this Apollo-facsimile out of his apartment, but he's suddenly awash in a calm, trusting wave, and he's compelled to be pulled along by it's current. So, he reaches for his sketchbook and tosses it to Enjolras, who flips it open and examines each drawing.

After a moment he blinks in surprise. "That happened last week," He says, pointing to a drawing of Apollo at a protest, the air behind him clouded with smoke, is honey hair catching the light. He has "LIBERTÉ" written across his forehead in angry red ink. "Did you see this on the news or something?"

Grantaire scoffs, still standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. He slumps down on a reading chair, hitting it with a gentle thud, "I don't watch the news, so no."

"You don't - " Enjolras looks angry for a moment, " - you don't watch the news? Do you not know what's going on in the world?"

"Um, no not really?"

The golden boy sighs, "I don't have time to argue about this. When did you do the drawing?"

Grantaire moves to examine it, frowning, "About two months ago."

Enjolras's eyes widen, "So you are a precog."

"Still don't know what that means."

"You must draw prophecies or something. Combeferre can figure out the details. But you're not safe here."

"What?" Grantaire reaches for his wine glass, but his hands find the bottle. It's already uncorked, so he takes a swig of it. He's too sober to be dealing with this. Or maybe this is all a drug-induced dream.

"You're a mutant," Enjolras says slowly, "and the government knows that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire's power is precognition through art.


	6. Feuilly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ///The pain fills his bones, bright and sharp. He staggers to his feet, hissing sticky air through his gritted teeth. When he stumbles to the side, he slips somewhere else - surrounded by darkness and pinpricks of red light, the distant sounds of waves crashing in his ears, then - he's in a city, he looks up and sees tall metal structures, crude skyscrapers, the air is polluted and heavy. It flickers, and he smells burning rubber, there's the sensation of a band-aid being pulled off, now he's underwater, his thin clothes floating around him, the water is clear and beautiful, light streams through.///

When he woke up in a world of darkness, muted red colors swirling above him and black dirt flecked with white stones beneath him, Feuilly assumed it was a nightmare.

He walks, bare feet sinking into a ground that hurts like glass, leaving footprints of blood. He doesn't know what else to do besides walk, fight the whipping cold wind that slices like claws at his face. His nose is cold and red, and his eyes water. There's nothing around him - no trees, no life, and when he bends down to examine the strange ground, he sees no life. Neigh a crawling bug or a worm writhing in the black-as-tar earth. The white stones are bright, blinding, almost reflective. When he turns to look back, his footprints are already gone, swept away. If he narrows his eyes and peers through the fog, he can just barely make out shapes - skinny, stilted beasts, many-antennaed, moving methodically in the wind. They're too far off to really see, but there's something terrifying about them, not human, their movements not quite alive.

He doesn't see signs of another being, and he keeps walking. He could be going in circles, he trudges on. His lips are parched, his tongue dry, throat aching when he yells.

The only sounds are the wind and his words.

"Aidez-moi! Veuillez, veuillez! Est quelqu'un là-bas?"

He walks.

"Veuillez m'aider," he cries, "veuillez m'aider."

When he collapses to the ground, his world spins away, and all he can do is whisper against the dirt, "Quelqu'un, veuillez."

The darkness spins and spin, dizzying, and when he rouses himself, he's in an ally, and it is raining. And there is blood everywhere. Bodies line the streets, blood waters the meadows, drips, drips, drips off of chairs and dressers and stacked furniture. There is something deeply, deeply wrong here. Something went bad, there are so many bodies, and it smells like gunpowder and smoke.

Feuilly swallows and stands, and instead of meeting shards of dirt, his feet meet quaint cobblestones slicked with wet red. He slips and holds himself against a brick building. It's hot, the height of summer, and death lines the roads.

Blood splashes when he walks. He walks by bodies, musket shells. He bends down, pressing his palms against chest after chest, feeling for heartbeats but there's nothing. Nothing stirs but the dead wind brushing against a red flag.

This is worse than the silent abyss of the black world, this is so very much worse. He's filled with inexplicable sadness, mourning the loss of these boys and girls he feels must have been, must be, his brothers and sisters.

He walks through the rubble, stepping into a building riddled with bullet holes, he steps around the corpses.

When his feet hit the foot of the stairs, he's thrown back, sucked into a different abyss, pulled in every direction, pushed down, he falls and falls and falls and -

He's nearing the ground in an instant, falling through spindly trees, they cut his face and his hands. He sees the sky, the color of lemons and bruises, all things sour and sore, and he hits the ground in a seismic collision. The pain fills his bones, bright and sharp. He staggers to his feet, hissing sticky air through his gritted teeth. When he stumbles to the side, he slips somewhere else - surrounded by darkness and pinpricks of red light, the distant sounds of waves crashing in his ears, then - he's in a city, he looks up and sees tall metal structures, crude skyscrapers, the air is polluted and heavy. It flickers, and he smells burning rubber, there's the sensation of a band-aid being pulled off, now he's underwater, his thin clothes floating around him, the water is clear and beautiful, light streams through. That feeling again, and he's breathing now, dripping puddles of water onto the floor as small feathered creatures dance around him. He gasps for air, clutching his chest, and takes a step, but his feet fall through the ground and how he's falling, really falling, on a collision course for a red planet far below him.

The fall is cut short and he's back, stumbling against the wall, reaching for his front door, mail key in his hand.

"C'est quoi, ce bordel," he mutters under his breath as he staggers back, afraid the floor might vanish.

"Ca va?" A voice calls from upstairs - Jehan Prouvaire. The world's most interesting roommate, also a fugitive and an extremely dangerous mutant. Sometimes Feuilly questions his decisions.

"Je ne sais pas," he calls, "Je viens - je ne sais pas, Jehan."

Jehan pads downstairs, shirtless in jeans a sheer floral robe that looks suspiciously like lingerie. Tattoos wind around their ribs, prose and peonies and peacocks.

"Bonjour mon cher," they say, drawing him to the dinner table, (Hello my dear) "What ever happened to you?"

Nausea and bile rise in the back of his throat and his eyes swim, "Can we - can we get Enjolras and Combeferre, please?"

Jehan nods, swiftly typing a message away on their cellphone, then looks up "They will be here in a moment." They move to the kitchen, flicking on the electric kettle and preparing a cup of tea (lemon ginger, judging by the smell).

Feuilly can feel Enjolras's presence before he sees him, the wash of calm that he sends over the room, dampening the panic and churning terror in his stomach. Jehan looks up, a smile gracing their freckled face.

Jehan unlocks the door, hugging the two other Amis with a few whispered words. Enjolras nods and the peacefulness increases, letting Feuilly relax in the gentle current. Combeferre purses his lips and moves to Feuilly, greeting him and reaching for his hand, "May I?"

"Go ahead, 'Ferre."

It takes only a second, Combeferre has practiced the art of borrowing memories. When he steps back and releases his hand, he looks to Enjolras, "Planeswalking."

Their leader smiles, "You're one of us, Feuilly," he says as he drags a chair over to sit across from Feuilly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feuilly is a planeswalker. He can travel between dimensions. 
> 
> TRANSLATIONS:
> 
> Aidez-moi! Veuillez, veuillez! Est quelqu'un là-bas? - Help me! Please, please! Is anybody out there?  
> Veuillez m'aider - Please help me  
> Quelqu'un, veuillez - Someone, please  
> C'est quoi, ce bordel - What the fuck (the French equivalent)  
> Ca va? - Are you okay / How are you  
> Je ne sais pas - I don not know  
> Je viens - je ne sais pas, Jeha - I just - I don't know, Jehan  
> Bonjour mon cher - Hello my dear


End file.
